by Clare Flynn
The child was bright, although behind in her studies. The frequent changes of governesses had disrupted her education and her reading was slow and hesitant. She preferred to spend time in the saddle rather than with her head in a book. Hephzibah tried to instil confidence in the little girl by praising and encouraging her and Ottilie began to show a gradual improvement. Her piano playing and singing became more confident – she had a strong but sweet voice and loved to use it. The pair sat side-by-side at the piano for an hour every morning, and again in the afternoon while the governess first heard her scales. After practising her pieces, the child would play duets with Hephzibah and sing.
As they finished the music lesson that afternoon, Ottilie turned on the piano stool and looked up at her teacher, her eyes anxious. ‘You won’t leave me like the other ladies did, will you, Miss Wildman? Please don’t go. I like you better than any of them.’
Hephzibah laid a hand on the child’s arm. ‘What do you mean? What other ladies?’
‘The other governesses. They all went away. One of them after only a week.’
‘Why did they leave?’
‘I don’t know. I thought at first it was because they didn’t like me, but Miss Walters cried when she said goodbye to me and told me she would miss me, so that can’t be true, can it?’
‘Did your father ask them to leave? Perhaps he wasn’t happy with how they were teaching you.’
‘He did ask Miss Baxter to go, but I think the others just decided to leave. Two of them went without saying goodbye to me. Mrs Andrews had chosen Miss Baxter while Papa was away and when he came back he didn’t think she was suitable. I was pleased because I didn’t really like Miss Baxter. She was very old and had whiskers growing out of a big mole on her face and when she talked bits of spit flew out of her mouth.’
Hephzibah smiled. She could imagine why Miss Baxter would have found no favour with Sir Richard.
‘My favourite governess was Miss Gordon. She was pretty, like you. Papa used to spend a lot of time with her. He always asked her to read to him in the library when I went to bed, but then one evening I looked out of the bedroom window and saw her crying in the garden and the next morning when I got up she’d already gone.’
‘I see.’ Hephzibah remembered the wandering hands under the table. Was she about to suffer the same fate as her predecessors?
Hephzibah saw Ottilie to bed and heard her prayers. She came back downstairs to the small drawing room, where she intended to read for a while before going to bed herself. The hall was in semi-darkness apart from a welcoming sliver of light under the drawing room door. Mrs Andrews had instructed the maids to light the lamps for her. She was turning the door knob when someone came up behind her and placed his hands either side of her waist. Hephzibah almost burst out of her skin. She cried out and jerked forward as she felt the squire’s breath on her neck. His body pressed against hers, pushing her against the door. She turned the handle and they lurched into the room.
Sir Richard lost his footing and landed on his knees at her feet. ‘Goddammit! What the hell?’
She seized the advantage to back out of the door and race up the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her. She burst into her bedroom, turned the key in the lock and leaned against the door, panting as she tried to regain her breath and her composure.
How could she possibly stay any longer in this house? The man was insufferable. She was in danger, scared he would stop at nothing and might even try to take her by force. Was it her own fault? Was she to blame for having lustful thoughts about Thomas? Was God punishing her?
She flung herself on the bed and felt the tears pricking her eyes. Why was she alone like this with no one to turn to? Mama, why did you leave me? What should I do? What would you advise if you were here?
There was no response from her mother. Just the hooting of an owl. If she were to sort out this situation she must do it alone.
By the next morning she had made her decision. She went to seek out Mrs Andrews and, finding her in the kitchen supervising the breakfast preparations, asked if she might have a word in private.
The housekeeper frowned but led her into her parlour.
‘I’ll get straight to the point, Mrs Andrews. Last night the squire acted in an inappropriate way towards me. It’s not the first time. He put his hand on my leg under the table while we were at luncheon the first Sunday I was here.’
Mrs Andrews sighed and motioned Hephzibah to sit. ‘I wondered how long it would take. I did warn you.’
‘But I had no idea. Not that he would go so far. And I got the impression from Ottilie that none of the governesses lasted long here. I think you need to tell me the truth.’
Mrs Andrews leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, Miss Wildman, but the maids who work here are not exactly endowed with youth and beauty. I’m responsible for hiring them so I choose those who are unlikely to attract the attention of his lordship. I have no say over governesses. I hoped that you, having been found by Reverend Nightingale, might be... how shall I say? ...plainer than the squire himself would have chosen.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But you have turned out to be anything but.’
Hephzibah ignored the back-handed compliment. ‘I need you to tell me everything.’
The woman sighed, then unfolded her arms, placed them on her knees and leaned forward. ‘It’s not really my place to say this, but say it I will. The squire is lonely. I don’t think he means real harm. He’s a man without a wife. And he does have a sense of... how shall I put it? ... entitlement. He seems to think everyone in his employ is fair game. The trouble is most of those governesses had ideas above their station. Thought when he showed them a bit of attention they’d soon be mistress of Ingleton. Too daft for their own good.’ She shook her head.
Hephzibah stared at her with horror. What had she let herself in for coming here to Ingleton Hall?
The woman went on. ‘He’d drop hints about taking a new wife and they were flattered. When they realised he had no intention of marrying them they were out of here, full of indignation and hurt pride. The only one he managed to take to his bed was Emily Gordon. She was dafter than the others. Sir Richard was engaged to be married to Lady Catherine Roderick but that girl thought she’d win him over. Maybe he promised her and she was soft-headed enough to believe him.’
Mrs Andrews let out another long-suffering sigh. ‘The lass was young and pretty and thought she’d see off Lady Catherine. But men like Sir Richard don’t marry pretty young girls. They marry to bolster their fortunes. Lady Catherine’s a widow. Her husband was a Member of Parliament, a friend of the squire’s. It would have been a marriage of convenience. But then Lady Catherine got wind of what that girl had got up to with her intended and forced him to send her packing. And then she jilted him herself.’ She tutted, shaking her head again. ‘And the truth is, the one who really suffers from all this is Ottilie. She was very fond of Miss Gordon, whatever the woman’s faults were. And the others. Just as she gets used to a new governess her father causes them to leave.’
‘How dreadful,’ said Hephzibah. ‘The man must be a monster.’
‘Don’t let him drive you away, Miss Wildman. I can tell Ottilie really likes you and the girl deserves better. Only the other day the squire told me how well she’s doing with you.’
‘But I can’t put up with him trying to molest me – creeping up on me and pouncing. I can’t live like that.’
‘Tell him then. Now I have to get on.’ Mrs Andrews rose and held open the door for Hephzibah to leave.
She took a few deep breaths and marched straight into the dining room where the squire was accustomed to taking his breakfast alone each morning. He was there behind a copy of the Berkshire Chronicle.
He lowered the newspaper in irritation. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
Hephzibah pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I want to talk about what happened last night.’
‘Don’
t know what you’re talking about.’ He picked up the newspaper again and shook the pages into place.
‘I think we need to get a few things clear,’ said Hephzibah. ‘I am here as your daughter’s governess and expect to be treated as such. I am not a common prostitute or a milkmaid looking for a tumble in the hay with the master in exchange for an extra loaf of bread.’
She could hear the trembling in her voice but forced herself to go on. ‘I understand you’ve already worked through a long procession of governesses and Ottilie’s education has suffered as a result. She is doing very well at the moment. Her reading and writing and piano playing are improving. She likes me and I like her. She needs continuity and not the sudden changes that have been inflicted on her as a result of your behaviour. I want you to think of your daughter, not just of yourself.’
His eyes were hooded and narrowed but she fancied he looked ashamed as well as angry. He put his newspaper down on the table.
She continued. ‘Here’s what I propose. We will forget about what happened last night. We will forget about what you did and said during that Sunday luncheon when your son was here. I will continue to teach your little girl and you will afford me the respect that I deserve. But if you ever lay a hand on me again I will go straight to the Reverend Nightingale and tell him exactly what kind of man you are so he can shame you from the pulpit if he chooses. And I will be on the next train back to Oxford. I will explain to Ottilie that my departure is due to the predatory behaviour of her father. I will explain to her that you did the same thing to all the other governesses. The choice is yours.’
Hephzibah got up from the chair and clutched the back of it to steady herself, hoping he would not realise how much her hands were shaking.
The squire picked up his paper again and made a show of folding it back into its previous neat sections. He turned to her and looked at her in silence for a moment, then said, ‘Feisty little filly you are, aren’t you? And you drive a hard bargain. I like that. Very well. We will forget about it and it won’t happen again. Now get out of here and let me enjoy my kippers in peace.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Oh! the pain of pains,
Is when the fair one, whom our soul is fond of,
Gives transport, and receives it from another
(from Busiris, Edward Young)
The squire was entertaining guests – a rare occurrence these days according to Mrs Andrews. The excuse for the dinner was the early December victory of the Conservatives over the Liberals in the general election, on the wave of Boer War sentiment. His dinner guests were the parson, the local doctor and his wife, the village schoolmistress, the local postmistress, Hephzibah and Thomas Egdon, who had returned from London that afternoon for the occasion.
Hephzibah was nervous – the prospect of seeing Thomas again, after what had turned into a lengthy absence from the Hall, both excited and terrified her. And it would be her first meeting with the other guests – indeed the first time she had been formally introduced to any of the people of Nettlestock, apart from Merritt Nightingale. Her nerves were made no calmer by Mrs Andrews letting her know that the invitees were, in her opinion, while perfectly respectable pillars of village life, definitely not “out of the top drawer”. The implication was that Hephzibah wasn’t either.
‘You must have made a good impression on Sir Richard,’ Mrs Andrews said. ‘He’s made an effort to invite guests of a similar status and background to your own. He doesn’t always bother.’
Hephzibah tried to conceal her irritation at Mrs Andrews’ poorly concealed belittlement.
The housekeeper raised one eyebrow and turned her head slightly, assessing Hephzibah through narrowed eyes. ‘I presume you’ve had no more trouble from Sir Richard since you talked to him?’
‘I think he and I understand each other now, Mrs Andrews.’
Hephzibah wore a simple black gown, cinched tightly at the waist, with embroidery above the hem, adding her mother’s locket and a pair of pearl earrings. She hoped the evening would not be too much of an ordeal. The only dinner parties she had ever attended had been Oxford college ones, with dons and their wives, where the conversation focused on her stepfather’s passions for classical culture and architecture, university politics, art and music. Occasionally, she had been asked to play the piano and she had always felt relaxed and in her element. She wondered what topics the good people of Nettlestock would talk about and whether she would feel out of her depth – she hoped it would not be all Boer War and politics. She decided her best approach was to smile, look interested and volunteer nothing.
The first to arrive were Dr and Mrs Desmond. He was a thin, bespectacled man who had little to say. His portly wife was like a roly-poly toy and had one of those unfortunate faces that, when resting, appeared to be permanently scowling, but she proved to be friendly enough when drawn into conversation.
The parson arrived soon after, along with the schoolmistress and postmistress, all in the carriage the squire had sent for them. Miss Pickering, the teacher, was painfully shy and looked as though she wanted to flee. Small and slender, she had a pale face and fine, wispy hair that resembled a dandelion clock that would blow away in the slightest breeze. Her lips looked raw and bitten and when she removed her gloves, Hephzibah saw that she chewed her nails.
Mrs Bellamy, the postmistress was a tall widow with a mop of white curls, a walking stick and a booming voice. She appeared to brook no opinion but her own and had a tendency to talk over the top of the other guests, ignoring anything they had to say. If someone mentioned the wet weather, she took it as a cue to speak of her own experience during the wettest-ever winter. When Miss Pickering mentioned that her mother came from Ireland, Mrs Bellamy immediately launched into a lengthy diatribe about Irish history and Irish people she had known. When the conversation inevitably took in the victory of Lord Salisbury in the election she took that as a cue to speak about a recent visit to the town of Salisbury.
The last to enter the room was Thomas Egdon, who ignored the guests, sat down, slumping indolently in his chair, then appeared to notice Hephzibah was in the company. He adjusted his position and smiled at her across the drawing room as she sipped her glass of sherry. He scowled at the parson, who had assumed a position between Hephzibah and the doctor’s wife and was speaking to them both animatedly.
Merritt Nightingale was recounting the story of Cephalus and Procris, the subject of his Ovid translation that day. As he told the tragic tale of the couple who were desperately in love yet each misled into believing the other’s adultery, he used his hands in extravagant gestures. Hephzibah and Mrs Gordon were enthralled, less by the story than by the passion with which it was recounted. Hephzibah reflected that the parson was a gifted and expressive storyteller. A good quality for a minister.
Merritt ended the tale with Cephalus mistaking his wife for a stag, when she spied on him from the undergrowth, and spearing her to death. The story over, Hephzibah glanced in Thomas’s direction but he had disappeared. The gong was sounded to summon the company into the dining room and she felt a little stab of disappointment that he was not to join them at dinner after all.
On entering the dining room, to her chagrin on the arm of the squire, she saw Thomas was waiting in position, holding her chair for her before slipping into the seat beside hers at the opposite end of the table to the squire whose face resembled an angry dog’s. As they all took their places Thomas whispered to her that he had moved the place cards.
‘Where was I meant to sit?’ she asked him, smiling, taking advantage of the murmur around the table as everyone greeted the people next to them.
‘Beside my father, of course. I felt duty-bound to rescue you.’
Postponing the continuation of their conversation, Hephzibah turned to greet her other neighbour and found that it was Merritt Nightingale. The squire, at the head of the table, was flanked by the rotund Mrs Desmond and the imperious Mrs Bellamy. He looked as though he had been forced to suck a lemon. Miss Pickerin
g sat on Thomas’s left, beside Dr Desmond.
For the first ten minutes or so Thomas monopolised Hephzibah, asking her what she thought of life in Nettlestock, whether she had explored the extensive grounds and what she thought of Ottilie. He appeared to be fond of his adopted sister and praised the little girl’s advanced riding skills.
‘She’s a natural horsewoman, that girl. Mind you, my father gave her her first lesson in the saddle before she knew how to walk. If it were up to her, she’d spend all day riding. Do you find it hard to keep her attention on her lessons?’
‘Not at all. Ottilie is an intelligent girl and takes a lot of interest in her lessons. She’s full of curiosity and is a joy to teach. She’s perhaps not so keen on practising her pianoforte scales, but otherwise she is an exemplary pupil.’
Merritt interjected from the other side of Hephzibah. ‘That is because she has an exemplary teacher.’
Hephzibah thought she saw a flash of irritation in Thomas’s eyes and rather than respond to the clergyman or include him in the conversation, he changed tack, still addressing his attention to Hephzibah.
‘Do you ride, Miss Wildman?’
When she told him she did not, Thomas immediately offered to teach her. Hephzibah felt herself blushing and said, ‘I couldn’t possibly presume upon your time, Mr Egdon. And my own time is dedicated to preparing for and giving Ottilie her lessons.’
‘As the parson has pointed out, you are an exemplary teacher and as such I am sure a little space can be found in your timetable for some riding lessons. Ottilie will be delighted and, once you are proficient, you and she can ride together. You’ll be able to see more of the estate and the countryside around the village. You don’t want to be stuck here in the house all day.’
